But so much for the public Turner. What follows is a much more private and delicate matter. I only mention it because I know you have his trust and perhaps his ear; I have neither of these, but I do have the good name of our brotherhood and our Academy at heart. I therefore take the liberty of sharing these few words with you and you alone.
Of Turner’s private life, aside from the fact that it is conducted on the most irregular principles, little enough is known, and the less known the better, for all of us. But many of our fellow Academicians have noted that ever since the death of his great patron Lord Egremont, Turner has grown ever more dissolute. Egremont’s son has cut him most dreadfully and he who once had the run of Petworth House is now distinctly persona non grata. Some say it is on account of that familiarity which Lord Egremont encouraged and which young Wyndham can’t abide, but others say it is on account of those goings-on a few years before good Egremont’s death, which were much whispered about in town at the time. It matters not the cause—the result is that Turner is cut off from his greatest source of advancement, and although he does not need the preferment (and I speak as one often in that need) he rails against its loss most bitterly.
Yesterday my boy of all work came to me and said he was troubled in his conscience on account of something he had heard when I sent him over to Macrone’s to see about some engravings. When he arrived they were not yet ready and he was instructed to go to the back of the studio and assist in packing them up. My boy reported that Macrone was entertaining Turner with a bottle, even though it was but two o’clock in the afternoon, when three hours of God’s good light remained in which a man might do some work.
They were, my boy said, quite merry. Turner spoke familiarly of Egremont and the great days at Petworth, boasting that he had done his best work there, work which the world would never see. Macrone questioned him on this point, and made some rude jests about how the best performance was always done under cover of darkness. At this Turner grew quite angry; my boy told me he feared the two might come to blows, but then, as if to settle the matter, Turner took out a note book and showed Macrone some sketches. At this Macrone (who, between ourselves, is no better than he needs to be) grew even more violent; he cried out that he had never seen anything so shameful and that “Helen be damned, but the mistress of Petworth is nothing more than a damned whore.” Turner took great offence and used words that my boy was too ashamed to repeat and I am too decent to write down. He stormed out of the studio, vowing never to see Macrone again.
Now, my boy is a good lad. I cautioned him about telling tales out of school, but he assured me he was so troubled in his mind that he needed to unburden himself. He was right to do so, I said, but on no account must he pass this story on. And yet I fear that grave damage may already have been done, for if it has come to me, who knows who else might hear the same or worse? The plain fact is that Turner needs to take better care of his reputation. He is, after all, the chief of our brotherhood, and if a cloud should fall on him, all of us will be equally under its shadow. Do speak to him when you return.
Bryce read the letter twice. “You have done well, my dear, very well indeed. You are not only beautiful, but resourceful. I was not mistaken when I chose you for this task. My taste has never betrayed me yet. People are like paintings, you know, and not everyone can distinguish the good and the beautiful from the rest.”
He asked her if anyone else knew about her find. She shook her head.
“Very good. We must keep it that way. If the vultures that hover over the graduate schools caught wind of this, we might not be able to keep them away.”
They spent the next hour or so discussing the significance of the letter. They agreed that it was likely that the notebook Turner had shown Macrone was one of the documents that Ruskin had burnt. They also agreed that Gina should turn her attention to the history of Petworth House next.
“It’s a well-plowed field, but I think it might be worth your time. Poke around the edges of things; perhaps you will find something there. But let me repeat: I am very pleased.” Bryce rose from his desk and walked her to the door of the library. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. The dry pressure lasted longer than she had expected it would.
“Good luck with Mr. Ashford. I expect to hear great things. Or at least remunerative things. It is a long flight from L.A. to London,” he said, placing his arm around her shoulder. “But you can while away the hours thinking about your next paycheck. I am sorry to see you go, but absence, as they say, makes the heart grow fonder. I look forward to your next visit.”
. 12 .
THERE WAS MUSIC and agreeable conversation after dinner, but the ladies soon grew tired. Jones and some of the others went off to play billiards, while I bade them good night and went to the library. It had been a momentous day and I felt that a few solitary moments before the fire would do me good.
There is something wonderful about a great house like Petworth after dinner. It is like an immense living organism. As I sat there in my quiet nook I was aware of the sounds of human activity all around me—the faint noise of the servants preparing the upper rooms, the distant murmur of conversation, the quiet clatter of the dinner things being put away. Gradually the creature seems to come to rest as the greater part of the servants complete their duties. One still hears something occasionally, but it is like the sound a sleeper makes as he dreams.
I heard footsteps approaching. It was Turner. He had a portfolio under his arm. “Ah, there you are, you young dog. You have found the coziest spot with the nicest fire. I had been coming to this house for five years before I had settled on this as my favorite place, and here you are after less than five days.” He pulled a chair up closer to the fire. “Always loved warmth. Cat for an ancestor, I suppose. But it is harder and harder to stay warm as I grow older. A sad business.”
I mentioned that he still had the energy of a younger man and that I had seen him go out as the sun rose.
“No, sir. You did not know me when I was younger. When I was younger I would have been waiting on the sun, not running after him like a schoolboy late for his lessons. I was so vexed with myself for my sloth today that I could hardly do the work I meant to do. It is a hard world we live in, sir, and it won’t do to lie in bed while the fight goes on about you.”
“I greatly admired the view as the sun rose this morning,” I said. “It was wonderful in the way the various shades of green appeared out of the gray. I suppose you went up there to do some sketches. I would be very much interested in seeing them.”
Turner seemed somewhat taken aback by my request and I myself was surprised by my boldness. At length he shrugged. “No harm in that, I suppose. Generally I keep my sketches to myself. Thinking in one’s small clothes, you know. Best done alone. But here, turn up the lamp.”
Turner had been sitting on top of the hill. On the first page I saw he had been looking down on the pond and at the rising sun beyond. It was evident he had been working with some sort of soft crayon or chalk. The page was a sea of color, swirling about as if the world were not yet fully formed and matter and light were just emerging from the chaos. I recognized the lake and the hills beyond; the sun was doubled in water and sky; some trees and low shrubs were fighting to be born out of the darkness.
“It looks nothing like,” I said, “but somehow more true. I hardly know what else to say, but you have put the truth of this morning on the page.”
Turner smiled like a delighted child. “You are too kind. But I see that you speak from your heart. That is a good thing, even if your eyes are not up to the task you set yourself. There is much that is wanting here. Turn the page. You will see that I warmed to my task as I worked. Here I was still annoyed at my tardiness. It is a picture of my indolence, not of the light I saw.”
I turned the page as instructed. The next drawing was more finished, as befitted a day that was already an hour old. The colors still swirled and the shapes were indistinct, but I could clearly recognize the contours o
f the pond. I could see the deer that had come down to the water’s edge to drink, and the cattle in one of the distant fields.
“That is a most beautiful drawing,” I said. “But I hope you will not think me rude if I say that I prefer the first. The world, I am sure, will admire the second more but the first feels more like the morning, if I can be allowed that. There is less likeness there, but more feeling.”
There were a few more pages of drawings, each done in a rapid and confident way. The most magical of them conjured up the view and the feeling of the morning out of only a few lines and splashes of color. It seemed like alchemy.
As I turned the last page I noticed a little drawing in one corner. It was the kind of crude sketch a naughty schoolboy might make. I thought of myself, David, when I am down on my knees before you in your glory. I wondered if Turner had allowed me to see the notebook because he was hoping to make an overture. He is not, as I have said, a handsome man, and you have no reason to fear on that account. His eyes met mine for a moment and I think he saw that I had noticed the sketch.
We were saved from any further discussion, however, by the sound of footsteps. It was Lord Egremont. Turner and I both rose to greet him, but Egremont waved us down. I moved an additional chair up close to the fire. “I knew this was Turner’s favorite spot, but I didn’t think that he would be so willing to share it.”
“Sharing had nothing to do with it,” Turner said. “The young dog is a dog of sense; he found it on his own.”
A servant entered, carrying a tray with glasses and a bottle. “I thought I might enjoy a glass before I retired,” said Lord Egremont. “I would be most gratified if you would join me. At my age it won’t do to drink alone.”
“To your health, my lord,” Turner proposed. He let the wine linger in his mouth before he swallowed it. “This is most fine, sir. I’ve never had anything like it—this must be, what is that stuff, Grant?—ambrosia, sir. The stuff of the gods, the very light in Apollo’s chalice.”
Egremont took another small sip before responding. “Glad you like it. This was laid down in the cellar half a century ago. Old Hartley, bless his soul, chose it. He was a man who knew his business. Not two dozen bottles left. I am getting to an age where it won’t do to save them. But I have put away enough young wine so that the youngsters shall have their share of fifty-year-old port when they reach my age.”
He turned to me with a smile. “You are silent, Mr. Grant. Do you not approve of the wine?” His kindness sparked a pounding in my chest as I remembered how he had addressed me this morning in the field.
“I am speechless,” I managed to reply. “I thought I had tasted port before, but this is a different order of thing altogether. I thank you for the privilege of drinking it.”
Lord Egremont nodded with satisfaction and then spoke to Turner. “The other night you said something that I have been puzzling over ever since.”
Turner held out his glass and watched as Egremont filled it. “Indeed?”
“Yes. You said that there was more truth between a woman’s legs than between Homer’s ears. You went on to say that the truth is what matters and that I would understand. I think, Turner, I do understand—but how did you know that?”
Turner’s manner changed abruptly. He seemed to look inward and spoke to himself, as if neither Lord Egremont nor I was in the room. “Passion, sir. Sensual delight.” He took another sip of port and savored it thoughtfully. “I have devoted my life to my art. Other men may have had greater genius than I. But no man has worked harder. The hours in the studio. The days and weeks upon the road. Sleeping in the most god-awful places, sir. Risking life and limb in the Alps. Getting poisoned by innkeepers. Nearly having my throat cut by Italian thieves. Having myself tied to the mast so that I might see the play of the gale upon the waves. All for my art, sir. I never took a wife. The obligations of home and family would have prevented me from devoting the full measure.
“But there have been times when the urgency of my sensual feelings has been such that I have risked much—money, health, position—in order to satisfy them. And when I think back on my career thus far—all the honors I have received, my early membership in the Academy, your patronage and hospitality, my lord, the esteem of my fellow artists—I doubt that much of it is as memorable to me as a night I spent in a country inn—Lord, it must have been twenty years ago—with one of the maidservants.”
Turner paused and a faint smile flickered over his face. Egremont smiled as well. The two of them seemed to have forgotten that I was there.
“Lord, yes. Before you were born, Turner, there was a lass that was the daughter of one of my tenants. She was a fine-looking girl. Clever as a whip. Lively. I had her in the house as a kitchen maid. I taught her some tricks I learned from the London whores. She was an apt pupil and took to them with a right good will. The hours I spent with her will live in my mind until I die.”
“So what became of her?” Turner asked.
“I married her off to another of my tenants. When the young man weighed her lack of virtue against the size of the dowry I provided, he took her. When on their wedding night he found what she could do, he saw he had made a most excellent bargain. She died about eight months after the wedding, bless her soul. The brat died too, but I don’t think it was mine.
“I am eighty years old. My teeth are better than yours, Turner. I can still walk, ride, shoot. My hearing is not what it once was, but if I sit close to the harpsichord I can hear Mrs. Spencer sing well enough. She is not such a wonderful singer, but the heaving of her bosom still affords me pleasure. The will is still there, Turner, after all these years, the will is still there. But the ability to perform is quite extinguished. I have consulted with my physician about the matter. The young puppy appeared quite surprised it was still a matter of concern to me. He is good enough in his line, I suppose, but he seemed to think that a man of four score ought to put aside that sort of thing and be grateful that he is still breathing. I wonder if he will be humming that tune when he is my age.”
“I confess, my lord, that what you describe has always been my greatest fear. But I imagined the desire would simply fade away like the light at close of day.”
“No. That’s the damn pity. There are times when I look at Mrs. Spencer, when she is reading to me or when she is gracing some buffoon with that lustrous smile of hers, and I feel the heat of it quite as if I was a young buck. But then, when we are upstairs, nothing comes of it, although the burning remains. It’s damn peculiar.”
Egremont suddenly looked at me, as if he had just recollected that I was in the room. “A young fellow like you,” he said. “You have no conception of what we are talking about, we old men who half live in the shadows. But you will, mark my words, you will.” He smiled at me quite kindly, as if our encounter that morning had never been. “Youth is a gift, young man. Do not waste it.”
“I’ve always thought of it as light, not burning,” Turner said. Turner reached for the bottle and filled his glass again as if our host was not present. The wine was potent stuff, but it did not seem to have any effect on him. I drank mine very slowly. I felt I was sailing upon deep waters and that it would not do to lose my way.
“Stands to reason you would,” Egremont replied. “But what do you mean by it?”
Turner took another sip of wine. He held his free hand out before him, like a man reaching for something in the dark, as he often did when he was trying to describe a difficult concept.
“Light. It is what makes the world. Without light: no clouds, no sky, no reflection on the water. This most excellent port? It would not be. Light is the prime force, creating all. Light drives us. Light, in all its aspects, is the motive of the world.”
We were all silent for a moment. I could hear the distant sounds of the great house settling into sleep. Turner went on, “That, you see, is what matters. Homer understood—rosy-fingered dawn and all that fuss—what was it about? A cunt, my lord, begging your pardon, a cunt. The Greek fellow wa
nted to fuck her and so did the Trojan fellow. We all would if we could see her, even young Grant here. And so a thousand heroes died, each death more bloody than the last. The very gods poking about in human affairs. Zeus himself having to set things to rights. All on account of that cunt. Even Homer could only hint at it, but that is the light that makes us be.”
“As I said this afternoon, you must paint that,” Egremont said, adding as he nodded in my direction, “and make use of Grant now that he is staying with us.”
Turner snorted. “You are a man of the world. I am a respectable member of the Royal Academy. You must understand that even if I could paint such a painting, which I don’t believe I can, I would never be allowed to show it in Somerset House, nor any public place. Indeed, if the painting were true, I could never show myself in respectable society again. There are worse fates, I suppose. But understand, sir, my father was a barber. You are a man of genius and sympathetic understanding, but I think, with all due respect, that like most men of noble birth you cannot understand how damn difficult mere respectability is. Neither my father nor Grant’s, I suspect, would have dreamed of sitting in this most noble of English houses, the seat of the Percys in Shakespeare’s day, with you, my lord, one of the greatest men in England, drinking a wine that could only be purchased with half a year’s labor.”
The Center of the World Page 6
